Crystal Clear
by msgenevieve447
Summary: Summary: Years before she'd picked up a medical text book, her Sex Ed teacher had taught her in high school that it only takes one time. The universe, Sara thinks, has picked a hell of a time to remind her of that lesson. Spoilers for #418, "VS". (Written April 2009)


Once again behind a closed and locked door, she stares at the tiny plus sign on the piece of plastic in her hand. Its verdict is stubbornly unchanged, confirming what she's suspected for days - weeks - and the sound that bubbles up in her throat is both a sob and a muted laugh of disbelief.

Pregnant.

Just as she had a few hours ago, she tries the word on for size in her head, rolling it around in her thoughts, and the same breathy rush of emotion seizes her throat once more.

Oh, God.

They've only made love once without using protection. Just once. That first night together, finding each other after her resurrection, when she thought she'd die a thousand deaths all over again if she didn't feel him against her, inside her, clutching him tightly as he whispered her name like a prayer and shuddered with violent pleasure in her arms.

That night, she'd cared for little beyond the knowledge that they were both alive and wanting and needing each other, brushing aside the niggling voice in her head with a promise of visiting a pharmacist the next morning. Of course, it hadn't quite worked out that way. They'd barely had time to dress before a bullet had shattered their newly discovered sanctuary, and the only thought in her head had been staying alive. By the time she'd had a chance to do an errand of any kind, it had been too late, any repercussions in the hands of the Gods.

Sinking back against the cool tiled wall of the bathroom, she dazedly wonders if she has always been blessed with bad timing or if this is something that comes with the territory of being in love with Michael Scofield.

Flipping the toilet lid shut, she sits and cradles the pregnancy test in her cupped hands. There is no room for _what if_ or _if only_ in her head, not now. There is only her and Michael and a future that beckons to her teasingly, ebbing and flowing in the distance like the waves' endless dance of flirtation with the white sand of the beach beneath her friend's upmarket apartment building.

_We can have all that, if we want it._

She takes a deep breath, drawing herself upwards, one palm pressed gently against her belly. In the face of more uncertainty than any two people should ever be expected to face, she knows one thing for sure.

She wants it.

* * *

She doesn't tell him.

She doesn't tell him because this is news that's not going anywhere any time soon. She doesn't tell him because right now he's treading a very fine line and she has no intention of being the one to push him off-kilter. She doesn't tell him because she's afraid of so many things she doesn't even know how to start cataloguing them.

She tucks her knowledge away inside herself, like a secret, shiny bauble, and she concentrates on the task of keeping him focused, keeping them all alive. They plan and they plot and every time she looks at him she feels as though someone is squeezing her heart very tightly. She knows he's nursing the kind of ancient, brutal pain that only a beloved parent can inflict, and despite her own limited experience in that field, she knows there is nothing she can say or do to make it better.

When they finally fall into their borrowed bed sometime after midnight, she lies awake, her cheek resting over his heart, their entwined hands on his stomach, and tries to picture herself telling him he's going to be a father. When she finally sleeps, she dreams of soft skin and squirming legs and newly opened eyes that are neither hazel or blue but a delicate shade of green.

* * *

The next day, they are once again buried beneath paper and coordinates and GPS charts, and she has the sudden notion that they may as well still be in the warehouse in Chicago. After hitting yet another dead end, she rises to her feet, intent on heading to the bathroom for what feels like the hundredth time that morning. Before she can take a step, Michael puts out his hand, wrapping his long fingers around her wrist. "Are you okay?"

She looks down at him, her mouth suddenly painfully dry even though she's drunk almost a gallon of water since she crawled out of bed. She'd given him a promise that she would never lie to him again, but she cannot burden him with this, not when they're so close to the end and he's already shouldering so much. His mother, Lincoln, his surgery –

She just can't.

"Upset stomach."

They both hear the hitch of uncertainty in her voice, and she knows she's strayed into dangerous territory. His bright gaze narrows, and she feels the brush of his thumb across her inner wrist, as though he's seeking to gauge the fluttering of her pulse. "Do you need to take something for it?"

"It'll pass."

"You look tired." His fingers glide over the jut of her wrist, then upwards to skim across the too-pale skin of her elbow. She wants to close her eyes and revel in his touch on her skin. She wants to drop down beside him and let him gather her in his arms, pushing aside the PDAs and piles of paper and maps and _tell_ him.

She gives him a smile, wondering if it looks as forced as it feels. "Well, you _do_ snore."

He doesn't return her smile. He just looks at her, waiting, his expression sombre, his fingertips making slow, exploratory patterns over the inside curve of her elbow. Patterns that she suddenly realises are far from random.

_Oh, God._

He's afraid she's using again.

Maybe the thought should offend her more than it does, but why shouldn't he? After all, she's an addict in recovery who's been diving into every bathroom they've come across for the last two days. Still, the idea that he might think –

Abandoning her silent dialogue, she sinks down onto the couch beside him, her legs weak with both relief and a lingering indignation. "I'm clean."

Closing his eyes, he bows his head, as if not wanting to meet her gaze. "I didn't mean to-"

She reaches for his hand, pulling it back, sandwiching it between both of her own. "It's okay, Michael." This is not a time for misplaced pride, she thinks. "If I were you, I might be thinking it, too."

He lets out a slow, shuddering breath. "I love you." He opens his eyes as he murmurs the words, gazing at her with a tenderness that has her squeezing his hand and biting back the words that are clawing to be set free. _Not now_, she tells herself fiercely. _Not yet_. She lifts his hand to her lips, brushing her mouth against his knuckles in a familiar caress that finally earns her a smile.

"I love you, too." Releasing his hand, she gets to her feet, knowing she'll still have to make her dignified stroll to the bathroom under his watchful gaze, despite her reassurances. She takes one step away, then turns on her heel, knowing there is at least _one_ conversation they can finish. "Actually, there is something I need to tell you."

He stares up at her, and she sees his tanned throat work as he swallows hard. "What?"

"The cheesy outfits I can do without," she tells him softly, feeling as though her heart is about to take flight clean out of her chest, "but I'll take the rest." She hesitates, then gives herself a mental shake. _Cards on the table,_ she tells herself. "If that's what you want."

He stares at her for a few seconds, then his mouth curves in a slow smile, the kind of smile she'd begun to think she'd never see on his face again. "That's what I want."

Her palms tingle with both the urge to smooth them over her belly and to reach for him. She does neither. Instead, she simply smiles. When the time is right, she will tell him. Until then, this will be enough. "So we're clear, Scofield?"

"Crystal."


End file.
